


Even Angels Can Wish They Were Dead

by ashleecraft



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Bullying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit suicide attempt, Gabriel is an asshole, Gen, Graphically Described Suicidal Feelings, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, I swear there's a happy ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Queerplatonic Relationships, Recovery, Self Harm, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Seriously the whole story is about Aziraphale's suicidal feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 04:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleecraft/pseuds/ashleecraft
Summary: TW: Suicide, Self-Harm, Depression. Aziraphale has been suffering from depression for a while, & the bullying he's experienced since the trial has only gotten worse. He constantly has to hide his tears at work, & he's isolated himself from Crowley. Things reach a boiling point when Gabriel bullies Aziraphale in his office, which pushes him over the edge. Aziraphale finally decides to act on the suicidal feelings he's been having. He prepares to slit his wrists.But first, he calls Crowley.(please read the trigger warnings if there's something you're sensitive to)





	Even Angels Can Wish They Were Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is ridiculously dark & I just want to warn everyone that almost the whole thing is a very explicit description of Aziraphale's depressed feelings & suicidal thoughts (for literally like 12k words), with some other things I'll list as trigger warnings below. But I swear it has the happiest, softest ending.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING:  
1\. Graphic suicide attempt  
2\. HEAVY, graphic descriptions of suicidal thoughts & feelings, depressed thoughts, & self-hatred. LOTS of these things, for most of the story.  
3\. Moderate description of blood (Aziraphale slits his wrists, & while this isn't gory, there is some description of blood.  
4\. I've marked "Major Character Death" as AO3 warning. NO ONE DIES IN THE STORY. But there are references to Crowley & the burning bookshop, which is an implied character death, & in one part Crowley imagines finding Aziraphale dead, so I've marked this warning just in case.  
5\. Mentions of dissociative feelings, including dissociation plus suicidal feelings  
6\. Mentions of self harm (& what could be construed as graphic description of self-harm if you count descriptions of Aziraphale's attempt)  
7\. Mentions of various methods of suicide  
8\. Some homophobia, including both external homophobia & bullying & internalized homophobia, but no slurs.  
9\. LOTS of references to bullying, including mild fat-shaming, homophobic bullying, etc.  
10\. Multiple uses of variations of the word fuck.  
I'm pretty sure that's everything.
> 
> Additionally, as an aromantic person, I've written Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship to be queerplatonic, but it really could be interpreted any way you'd like it to.

Everything in Aziraphale‘s life had, very quickly, become all too much to handle. And he’d been trying to handle it.

He’d been trying, his very best, he thought. He _really_ had.

But sometimes, even angels can get overwhelmed. Even angels can get depressed.

Sometimes, even angels can wish they were dead.

–

Aziraphale caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Stopped. Did a double-take. Then he stared at the reflection of himself, gawking like a person who couldn't tear their eyes away from a horrible motor accident. He could not quite recognize his reflection anymore. Some vague part deep inside him found this to be terrifying.

Sure, it was _him, _as much as anything about this body of his was, but somehow strangely at the same time, it _wasn't him. _The figure that stared back at him looked back at the figure on the other side of the mirror with empty, numb eyes. There was a world-weariness to them that Aziraphale never thought his own countenance could possibly form itself into, but it he had surprised himself by doing so.

It certainly looked like him, but then again, identical twins look like one another without being the same person.

He ran a cold, tired hand over his eyes. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to see the exhausted face, the desperate, dead gaze, the rumpled, dirty suit, and those damned hopeless eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, and lost too much faith, when faith – faith in _something – _had been what had sustained the hope-filled innocence he had maintained over millennia despite all the horrible things those same eyes had seen.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered the sparkle they'd once had. He remembered how he'd adored dancing, how upbeat he'd been in even the darkest of situations, how just months ago, he had so enjoyed sushi, and fine wines, and dinner at the Ritz with Crowley.

_Crowley._

He felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of the demon Crowley. _Crowley._ And his heart ached with a special sort of love he shouldn't have felt for the demon, but did anyways.

The two of them had helped save the world, together. Helped stop the Apocalypse. Saved all those lives. Aziraphale's mind flashed with snapshots, taken throughout the centuries, of the demon. Crowley, saving him from the guillotine. Crowley, and how painful it must have been for him to walk across the floor of that church, just to save Aziraphale from the Nazis. The years the two of them had spent, pretending to be gardener and nanny, raising the wrong child as the Antichrist.

_I should not feel love for someone of his kind. It is horribly wrong to feel that way. It is a SIN. It goes against everything I was designed to do...and heaven despises it._

_...all the more reason I am an 'useless excuse for an angel'._

He suddenly found himself leaning up against the wall for support, sobbing like a child. How many times had he cried already today?

He couldn't –

_Gabriel._

–

Crowley had been wrong.

Not about it working when they'd switched places for their respective trials. That had worked.

No. He'd been wrong that their respective sides would leave them alone afterwards.

Well, half-wrong.

As far as Aziraphale could tell, Hell had left Crowley alone. Sometimes, the demon was given assignments, and he still continued to report back to them all sorts of happenings on earth that he'd had a hand in, but no one meddled with his personal business anymore.

But Heaven? Heaven had only gotten worse.

Aziraphale couldn't really figure out when the bullying had began. It had always been there in a way, ever since he'd given away the flaming sword. But after the trial?

It had become, in a word, _hell._

It gradually increased, growing venomously from a rustling background whisper into a full-blown, overwhelming roar.

“You're a _loser_.” Michael scathed at him when he wasn't quite clear on what was being asked of him.

“I don't know why you're so..._incompetent_.”

“I just can't believe how stupid you are.”

“No wonder nobody likes you.”

“You're such a failure.”

"I can see why you don't have any friends."

“Look at that, Aziraphale! You've fucked up again!”

Angels would laugh at Aziraphale as he walked through the halls of Heaven. And they point point at him, and they would whisper. His face would flush; he'd feel himself shrinking down inside, and the monstrous feeling of something sacred cracking a little more would overwhelm him, and he would blink back the ugly tears that rose up deep inside him. _Please don't let them see my tears please don't let them see my tears. _Sometimes, their laughter would be accompanied by homophobic slurs, or comments about his weight, or, worst of all, comments about Crowley.

And he would put on a pleasant smile, and stand up a little taller, and pretend that their conduct did not bother him at all. But as soon as he could, he'd slip away into a closet or the quiet corner of a hallway, and he would cry.

He was ashamed of himself for this.

_You're such a failure; you are a weakling. You're a loser. You can't even handle the simple demands of the job you were literally created to do._

That had been going on for months. Each laugh, each insult, chipped away at him a little more. But he'd been capable of handling it. If he pushed it all down and hid it all away and put on a smile even when he was struggling not to sob, he could handle _anything._

But recently –

_I can't handle this._

_It's all too much..._

_to endure._

–

“I’d like to...speak with you in my office.” Gabriel had said earlier that very day, briskly walking away at a pace Aziraphale had trouble keeping up with.

_The trial. It probably has to do with the trial –_

But the more positive side of his mind interrupted, with its habitual, pleasant chatter.

_Oh bother. I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with my using a miracle to help that poor woman get her cat down from the –_

“Sit down.” Gabriel gestured at the chair across from him as he sat primly, hands folded over one another on the desk. His desk was spotless, empty, as it always was.

Aziraphale sat down nervously.

_The trial._

_Crowley._

“There are a few things, Aziraphale, that angels should be.” Gabriel began, steepling his fingers. “Intelligent, for one. And loyal. And successful, in the duties in which they are assigned.” His tone was sharp, curt. “_You, _however, are none of those things. You're stupid, you're a traitor to everything you were designed to stand for, and you're a _failure_.”

Aziraphale felt himself flushing. The back of his neck flushed first, then his cheeks. His cheeks burned. His eyes burned too, with unshed tears that were quickly becoming daggers to his eyes, but he willed himself with all his might not to cry in front of Gabriel.

“You're a _failure_.” Continued Gabriel. “Failing to complete your assignments? Interfering with the apocalypse? Failing to have pride in your appearance? Fraternizing with a demon?” He paused, smiling cruelly. “..._Loving a demon_?”

Hot tears filled Aziraphale's eyes. He blinked them back, to no avail.

“We're not –“ His voice cracked, and a sob slipped out.

Gabriel's smile grew.

“Oh, I know all about it. _Everyone_ here does.”

Aziraphale covered his face with his hands, trying to hide the tears that were quickly pooling in his eyes and beginning to stream down his face.

_It's all too much all too much all too much –_

Gabriel laughed.

“This is _hilarious! _Angels aren't supposed to be _crybabies_. Angels aren't supposed to love demons, much less cry over them!”

_Terror._

“You're not going to..._fire_ me? Are you?” The words came out in a jumbled sob.

Gabriel let out a long laugh.

“No, we're not. Because we can't. No approval from _above..._if you know what I mean. We've already tried to get rid of you, but as you know, well, that didn't work. But don't worry! We are going to keep you around. As an example to the other angels. So all of them know what a _fucking failure_ looks like.”

“Please.” It broke Aziraphale, how weak, how desperate his voice sounded. “Please stop.”

Gabriel ignored him, and his smile grew even wider.

“Hey, listen to this fun memo I emailed to _everyone_ earlier. You'd be able to read it yourself too, if you used email.” Gabriel sat back in his chair and read from his tablet phone, “Aziraphale is a worthless idiot of the worst kind. Everything he attempts, he is a fucking failure at. He's a slob, and has no respect for his superiors. As you probably already know, he fucked up the apocalypse, and more often than not, has failed to complete his sacred, God-given assignments. Oh! And if you didn't know already, he is also in love with the demon Crowley. Now, _isn't that_ _sweet? _Let Aziraphale stand as a perfect example of what failure as an angel looks like. He's nothing more than a useless excuse for an angel, and we should be ashamed to know the likes of him.”

“That's not true!” Aziraphale burst out.

Gabriel laughed, long and loud.

“You are disgusting! Who do you think you _are?_” He laughed again. “Shut your stupid mouth and _fucking die already._”

Aziraphale couldn't take it anymore. He fled from the room, choking back sobs. Gabriel roared with laughter behind him. Out in the main hall, a group of angels stood by the wall, reading a sheet of paper. _The memo._ They pointed at Aziraphale and dissolved into laughter, several of them quoting the memo. Aziraphale's vision blurred with tears.

_They wouldn't stop laughing._

–

Aziraphale straightened himself up by the wall. He was so exhausted. With everything.

_They're not right. You're so much more than that. _The part of Aziraphale's mind that still loved himself whispered.

But that part of his mind was starved. Months of feeling this way had worn him down to a desperate shadow of what he had been. He was slowly finding out that none of the things that had mattered to him mattered much at all anymore.

And the self-loathing part of himself had become very well-fed. It thrived, a little more venomously, with each laugh, each horrid word, each empty day Aziraphale killed that meant nothing.

_They ARE right._

_Everything the memo said –_

_I have failed them. _Sob. _I have failed them all._

_Not angel enough to belong upstairs, not demon enough to belong downstairs._

_I don't belong anywhere._

…

_I really have no one._

…_But Crowley –_

Aziraphale pushed the image out of his head as if in argument with the darker side of himself. _I’m trying to make a point here; stop mucking it up. I can’t trust Crowley. One can never trust a demon –_

_But he has been so kind to you. What about the time he –_

_Demons cannot love._

_Even if they pretend to be able to._

_That's why you can't handle to see him anymore._

_It's just too tormenting to see him, to see the way he looks at you, the things he does..._

_and to know none of it is real._

_..._

_You don't belong anywhere._

–

As things had gotten worse for Aziraphale, he had found himself drifting away from Crowley, spending less time with him. But _bugger it. _Crowley kept asking, calling him up on the phone –

“Can I...come over today?”

“Do you want to go to the duck pond? I'll even buy proper duck food instead of bread.”

“Hey Aziraphale, just wanted to know whether you were free today. I'll buy you crepes.”

“Hi! Just wanted to know if you wanted to go to the Ritz today. I'll pay?”

“I haven't seen you in a while, Aziraphale. Is everything okay?”

“Are you okay?”

“Please, Aziraphale...did I say something? I just really want to see you.”

And each time, Aziraphale had come up with some excuse why he was busy, he had been given an assignment, he wasn't home. He'd assured Crowley that he was perfectly fine. And he knew, _he knew, _that Crowley knew he was lying. He was a terrible liar. It hurt him, to think of lying to Crowley.

But he couldn't bear to see Crowley. Couldn't bear it. His guilt burned at the back of his throat, at his fingertips, deep inside his chest. The guilt of always being watched, of always having someone above you, ready to strike you down, ready to judge you, ready to make you burn for the things you yearned to feel, and for the most sacred parts of who you really were.

_I will be punished._

_It's wrong. It's a sin. An angel and a demon?_

_Crowley doesn't really love you. It's all just an act. He has never loved you. _It ripped Aziraphale's heart out to say that, to think that.

But he had to keep telling himself that until he believed it.

_He doesn't really love you._

_He doesn't really love you._

_He doesn't really love you._

Eventually, Crowley had stopped calling.

_That's a good thing. It proves he didn't love you in the first place. He never loved you. You're just a fool –_

_Worthless._

_Idiot._

_Failure -_

But deep down, Aziraphale desperately wished he would call.

–

_You don't belong anywhere._

Aziraphale realized he'd been sitting on the floor in the middle of his bookshop, leaning up against the wall, staring at nothing for almost an hour.

_'Aziraphale is a worthless idiot of the worst kind.'_

_'I’d like to...speak with you in my office.'_

_'You're a FAILURE.'_

…

_'Loving a demon?...Everyone knows!...Isn't that sweet?'_

'You are disgusting! Who do you think you are?'

The shop was closed, as it always had been recently. But there was a quiet bang on the door. Aziraphale jumped, then looked towards the door.

_Crowley?_

_...No. Just the wind._

He hated how badly he wished it had been Crowley.

_'Loving a demon?...Everyone knows!...Isn't that sweet?'_

'So all of them know what a fucking failure looks like.'

…

_You don't belong anywhere._

How was it possible to hurt so very much? He had a soul, but he felt like somehow, it had already died. Somehow, everything inside him ached in the most fatalistic way possible. The pain came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and yet it filled him up so completely that it seemed to be all that was. It radiated in a vague circle around him, and it hurt so achingly that it took his breath away.

He'd do anything to make it stop.

Aziraphale blinked twice, slowly. An idea was creeping up from the back of his mind, tingling across his skin like poison, a black hole rushing at him like a train running out of track, growing inside his mind and eliminating all but one thought.

_You could –_

_I can't do that. It wouldn't be –_

_But what else is there, Aziraphale?_

_What else is there?_

_'Shut your stupid mouth and fucking die already.'_

No. He couldn't do _that._

It wasn't –

He wouldn't know how –

_...You know how._

A sob escaped him. He wrapped his arms around his legs and hugged his knees tightly up against his chest, his whole body shaking.

He didn't think he wanted to kill himself and yet –

The temptation to hurt himself bloomed venomously, wild and unchecked, inside his hollow chest. It burrowed into the backdrop of his every thought, remaining just far enough out of reach that he wasn't aware of its presence until it had already grown strong. It flitted around in his peripheral vision, and each time he tried to glimpse it, it had already hidden deep inside the backdrop of another moment. It was always behind the curtain, concealed in the shadows, choosing not to pounce directly but rather to let its presence wear down its victim until they were begging for oblivion. It buried itself just outside the walls of his resolve, until he could feel the roots of it cracking the foundation and crushing its way through the wall, destroying the sole thing holding him together. Spindly, monstrous fingers reached out from the Trojan Horse that had found its way inside of him, and the dark veil of hopelessness was pulled down over his face, smothering any further light.

He became aware that it was only a matter of time before he acted on his feelings. The idea of suicide had become something imminent. He could feel himself speeding, fatalistically and with tears streaming down his cheeks with the pure _relief of it all, _towards the end.

_...things might get better. _The almost imperceptible voice in the back of his head whispered weakly.

_They won't._

_What else is there?_

Gabriel bullying him in his office every day? The other angels, now with new fodder for their laughter? Everything would only get worse. And the memo.

_The memo –_

What was to stop Gabriel from sending another one tomorrow, or the day after that?

And more laughter. Laughter that never ended. And more memos, all quoted to Aziraphale in the halls, and more talks with Gabriel in his office.

_'You're a fucking failure.'_

The future stretched out before him; overwhelming and abysmal and _without end. _Day after unending day, year after unending year, the whole Universe before him, and yet there was no one in it that made his life worth living, no one in this world that truly loved him.

Not even himself. Anger flooded his veins; a deep, violent loathing towards himself bubbled up and found itself screaming. Aziraphale's vision swam; all he could hear was the vague buzzing, a light blinking on and off, on and off, each repetition with more conviction than the last –

_You have nothing._

_YOU ARE NOTHING._

_You have nothing._

_YOU ARE NOTHING._

_You have nothing._

_YOU ARE NOTHING –_

A black hole had been opened. And try as he might, he couldn't swim away from it. He could not close the door. The current was too strong.

_I'm just too weak to handle anything. I'm weak._

_I'm so WEAK –_

_'He's nothing more than a useless excuse for an angel, and we should be ashamed to know the likes of him.'_

_'You're a failure.'_

And the laughter. _The laughter._

“It's not going to get any better, is it?” Aziraphale sobbed out loud, hugging his knees harder. His body was spent; exhaustion fell over him like a weighted blanket, but instead of it bringing with it the comforting presence of sleep, it instead became a harbinger of his desperate need to _stop feeling this way._

_You can end this. _The voice whispered to him, cutting through the silence like a curtain being torn.

And instead of feeling sad at the idea, or terrified, or hearing a click as the voice of reason stepped in to scream _WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, _Aziraphale only felt a sense of noiseless certainty and..._power_, in the realization that _he could do something about this._

_YES YES YES,_ his mind played continually. Something inside him yearned, almost more than he had ever yearned for anything, to quench its thirst for the deep, inevitable, coursing _relief _–

_You can make that happen. You have the power to do that for yourself –_

_...As one more act of mercy._ He thought, and in the back of his mind, he felt like he should have felt horrified that he was thinking this with such confidence. But he wasn't. The idea sounded perfectly rational.

Gradually, he grew quiet.

“I can't go on like this.” He whispered to himself, and he knew it was _true_, and a few more sobs escaped him. He unstuck his tear-soaked cheek from the fabric of his trousers.

_'Shut your stupid mouth and fucking die already.'_

_You must do something. About this._

He wiped his eyes on his hands and looked vaguely upwards. He was _so tired._

_I can't kill myself –_

_BUT WHAT ELSE IS THERE?_

"I wish I was dead." He sobbed. And he finally let the images that had been scrabbling at the gates of his mind flood in. There was no use in fighting them anymore. He was exhausted.

Images filled his mind, fast and bloody and violent and _oh, the sweet relief. _He saw his body, hanging lifelessly from a rope from the railing of the stairs. Himself, the cold metal of a gun clamped between his teeth, staring down the barrel, crying as he pulled the trigger. Swallowing bottle after bottle of pills –

The relief, _the relief, _any of those things would provide.

A sob slipped out.

Yes. Yes. He _would_ get this relief. He would put himself out of his misery. He would end his suffering. He _could_ end it.

_A mercy killing, almost, _he thought, smiling bitterly with a mouth that strangely did not feel like it belonged to him.

That would be the noble thing to do, wouldn't it? He was an utter failure. He had failed in the eyes of everyone. He was indeed an useless excuse for an angel.

The world really would be better off without him.

_Heaven cannot eliminate me, but I can eliminate myself._

_'Shut your stupid mouth and fucking die already.'_

_...Maybe I will. I haven't always listened to my superiors, but this time, I do believe I _want _to._

_'Everything he attempts at, he fails.'_

_Well, at least it’s possible I can do this right. I'm not going to fail, not with something as important as this. _He smiled bitterly at this.

_I really am going to kill myself._

The bookshop buzzed with loaded silence.

_But how? There are so many methods by which one could end things –_

Aziraphale found himself walking through his living area. His eyes searched around, not so much as to find something he had on hand that he could _use, _because he could miracle anything he wanted into existence, but rather in an attempt to figure out _how _he wanted to – to go about it.

_If _he was going to do it, of course.

_You really shouldn't do this –_

_I know what needs to be done._

He shuffled through his back room. Gabriel's voice screamed in the back of his mind. The laughter grew louder and louder until it roared inside of him –

With a trembling, trembling hand, he found a plastic carton of straight-edge razor blades in the drawer of the kitchen. He picked the box up slowly, almost reverently.

_These will be perfect._

_Do you really want to do this?_

_...Yes. Yes, I do believe I do._

_I am finally thinking for myself. I am finally making my own choices –_

He slowly walked back out into the kitchen. He briefly considered doing it in the bath, but he didn't particularly like getting wet, so why would he want his last moments to be spent with any more discomfort than was necessary?

He weighed out the pros and cons of several other locations in his house, listing the benefits and drawbacks of each out loud.

_That's ridiculous. You're dying, for – someone's sake. It's not going to be comfortable –_

But as in life, he'd enjoyed comfortable things, so if he was going to do this, he was going to do it proper, and be comfortable, and not do it in a manner that he didn't like, even if it would have made things easier. He was stubborn in this. _You only get one chance. _Pros and cons be damned. If he was going to die, it was going to be in the kitchen, in his favorite room in his flat.

He carried the box of razors out into the kitchen. He considered doing it over the kitchen sink, as to not get blood all over the place, but he quickly realized that was going to happen anyways, so ultimately, he decided he'd rather do it sitting at the kitchen table. He sat the box of razors down by his seat at the table.

_The table –_

He felt a pang somewhere deep inside his chest as he thought about all the delicious meals he'd had at the warm, scratched wood of the table he'd had for more than a hundred years. Sometimes, Crowley had joined him there, where the two of them had consumed good wines deep into the night –

Aziraphale forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

He began by taking a sort of panting deep breath and letting it out, because it felt like the appropriate thing to do.

_Okay, then. Best to get started._

He slowly pulled his chair out and sat down. The bright plastic of the razor case looked unnaturally appealing at the moment. He was _so close..._

_How did one go about – was there some sort of ritual one should follow?_

He pulled his chair closer to the table. He adjusted his bow tie. Straightened the napkin holder. He glanced around the kitchen, sweating –

…

…

_Do you really want to do this?_

_..._

He slowly pulled a razor from the case and laid it on the table in front of him, perfectly straight, in front of his right arm. Then he pulled another out, and put it perfectly straight in a row, slightly away from the first, and another, until there were three razors lined up on the table in front of him. All perfectly straight, all in a row. He did not know why he chose three; _of course it only takes one. _But it felt like the necessary thing to do, and some vague part of his mind wondered whether he was procrastinating. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest.

Vivid images of things, things he was leaving behind, of the world, of – _beings_ he'd known flash-flooded through his mind, but he let them all play on like a roll of film flickering through the back of his mind, untethered and uncontrollable and silent.

_So now, the only question left is how to begin?_

Aziraphale had a vague idea of _how _it was done. He picked up one of the razors. Fiddled with it. His reflection was refracted back dimly at him, in the gray of the blade, in the warm gold light of the bulb above his table. Aziraphale realized it was nighttime. He hesitated for a moment, letting his gaze blur, listening to the intense, roaring silence as if waiting for some sign to come down from _somewhere, _a cosmic coin toss that would give him a definitive sign either way, life or death, so that he could be _certain._

But no signs came down. Or up.

_You're a fucking failure._

This time it was his voice inside his own mind that said it, not Gabriel's. A new wave of self-loathing washed over him. He didn't know it was possible to hate himself so much. He suddenly felt the desperate urge to act on the images that screamed for attention inside his head. 

He jumped up and glanced around again at his kitchen, _one last time_. He took off his jacket, folded it, and set it on the edge of the counter.

_Don't want to get blood on that –_

He sank back down into the chair. The blades glinted at him, hungry, from the table.

“I'm going to kill myself.” He murmured, as if to give himself closure. Or maybe was he announcing it with the hopes that somewhere, he would be heard –

_You should call Crowley. He should know. For posterity._

…_To say good-bye._

Emotion nipped up inside his chest. He forced it back. He couldn't let his feelings get in the way, not now, not when they were what had made him such a failure in the first place.

Not when he was so _fucking_ _close._

He paused.

_You don't have to tell him. You shouldn't. You don't owe him anything._

…

…

_...But you do._

_Six thousand years is quite a long time to know somebody. _

_You should call to say good-bye._

_Be honest with yourself. You’d expect him to call it if he was going to —_

Aziraphale glanced achingly down at the blades. Oh, how he wanted to drive one into his wrist, and feel the blood seeping out, and feel himself slipping away as everything slowly became quieter, and the deep, devastating relief of the sleep he would be resting in once he finally lost consciousness –

_You should call Crowley._

He sat there, staring at the now-warm metal of the razor he clenched between his fingertips. He set it back down and picked it up again and pictured in his mind where he would cut and how deep –

_You should call Crowley._

He set the blade back down again. Picked up a different one, this one colder than the others. He unbuttoned the sleeve on his left arm and had to set down the blade again so he could roll the sleeve up to his elbow. _Relief. It was so close. _The burning need to erase himself from the world, both for his own sake and for the sake of everyone around him, overwhelmed him. He picked up the blade again. Oh, how he _hated himself –_

I can’t bear being me anymore. 

_You are disgusting._

_You are a fucking failure –_

No more. He could end this. It was much too overwhelming to stay alive any longer, not this time. And he would never have to feel what it was like to have everyone laughing in his face again, and he would never have to break down in tears in the hallway at work ever again, and he would not have to live another day that he could not bear living, knowing he was such a _fucking failure –_

_YOU SHOULD CALL CROWLEY._

The voice inside his head was frustratingly loud. He wanted to ignore it, to pretend he hadn't heard it at all, and just _end it, _but he suspected the voice would only become louder. If he didn't, it would be unfinished business. It would be the equivalent of having a sharp pebble in one's shoe as one walked into a river with pockets full of rocks to drown oneself.

Dying would be uncomfortable enough as it was, without the added discomfort of knowing there was something he should have done, but didn't.

He set the blade he was holding down. He let out a shallow sigh of annoyance. His hands were trembling violently.

He supposed he _should_ call Crowley. Just for posterity, nothing more. So that he might die in _peace_, without that very frustrating sensation of knowing you've left the stove on but not being able to go back home to turn it off.

He reached over, picked up the telephone, and with a trembling, deep reluctance, dialed Crowley's number.

–

Crowley was sitting in his flat, trying to write a letter when the phone rang. Balled-up pieces of paper from discarded drafts filled a waste paper basket. 

Crowley picked up on the second ring.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley sounded surprised and possibly too happy to hear from his friend. Aziraphale vaguely suspected that the demon had most likely been waiting by the phone for the angel to call. But Aziraphale had more important things to worry about now, like how much he suddenly wished that he hadn't called at all, or that at the very least, that Crowley hadn't picked up.

_You have to let him know. For posterity. _He reminded himself.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale began in a calm, measured tone.

There was a long pause, in which an ominous feeling that Crowley couldn't describe washed over him. It felt fatal, somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

“Crowley, you’re not going to be seeing me anymore. I just felt like I should tell you that, as we’ve known each other for a very long time and -“ Aziraphale's voice wavered. Crowley suddenly noticed how much he sounded like he'd been crying.

Crowley felt his blood run cold. He had never seen Aziraphale cry.

And the fear bloomed inside Crowley, with the fierceness of a car speeding towards the edge of a cliff and the silence that followed the crash.

“What – what exactly do you mean?” Crowley sputtered. "Is everything - alright?"

“What I’m trying to say is...” _Pause._ In a freakishly calm voice, as if he were just reporting back to his superiors the results of an uneventful day, he announced, “Crowley...I’m – I'm thinking about hurting myself.”

“Wait – fuck – what?”

The idea was as incomprehensible as anything Crowley had ever heard, and yet –

“Suicide, Crowley.” The angel’s voice cracked. There was a pause that lasted an eon. “I’m going to kill myself, and because I've known you for such a long time, I just thought you should know."

It took Crowley a second to process the full meaning of the angel’s words, but when they hit him, Crowley felt his skin grow cold. The heart he didn’t even need raced in his chest. He felt as though he were in a nightmare, falling through the cold emptiness of space, falling and falling and falling without end.

“Aziraphale – no, you can't – why?”

“I'm sorry, Crowley.” Aziraphale's voice was choked with tears now. “I _knew_ I shouldn't have called –“

“I'm coming over, Angel. I'm coming over.” Crowley shouted, his voice cracking, his voice _desperate_. 

“Please don't try to stop me, Crowley. I know what I'm doing. I'm going to slit my wrists. I've made up my mind. I can't take this anymore –” He was fully crying now. 

“I'm coming over, oh, Angel, please, please don't -”

“I will be dead by then –”

“Please, _please, angel, please _don't do anything. Please wait – I'm coming. I'm _coming – Please –_” Crowley begged brokenly.

There was silence.

Then, too-calmly one more time:

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

“Angel – Aziraphale –”

The line went dead.

_FUCK._

Crowley flew from his flat. Flew down the stairs. Tore open the door to the Bentley, floored it, tires squealing, down the street –

_Aziraphale - suicide - _He thought numbly.

He couldn't breathe. He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. The world around him moved in slow motion, and - this couldn’t be real, could it? His whole body was being crushed by the gigantic, torrential serpent of fear. The world seemed like the nightmare world he sometimes arrived at in dreams; everything imbued with veins of utter hopelessness, the fatalistic sense that he was on his deathbed, the cold gray steel of a world you just _knew _was going to cease to exist soon, or cease to exist with you in it -

And all he felt was the same sickening dread, and the all-encompassing horror, and the indubitable, coagulated grief; the same way he'd felt when he could not find Aziraphale in the burning bookshop.

_He's really going to –_

His mind flashed with horrible images. All of which were exactly like what happened in the bookshop, except they all ended with him actually finding _Aziraphale's_ _body_ –

“Please — please...please — don’t let — don’t let him die...” Crowley choked out, pleading, broken; praying to a higher power, any higher power who might _please help do something before it’s too late — _

But no signs sprung up. No gods appeared to reach out a hand and tell him that _they would not let Aziraphale die._

It was just Crowley. 

A dry sob tore from Crowley's chest. He flew down the centre line of the motorway, past drivers who didn’t notice him and if they had, would have assumed him to be a ghost.

_...But what if you are too late?_

Without even asking himself, Crowley _knew_ he would pick up the same blade Aziraphale – had _used,_ and drive it into his own flesh. 

_He couldn’t go on –_

_Not without his best friend._

“_COME ON!” _Crowley screamed at his Bentley, and he pounded on the steering wheel, his body wracked and doubled over with sobs, and despite the fact that the Bentley was already going as fast as it could, it still managed to go a bit faster.

–

Aziraphale stared at the three blades, still lying neatly out in front of him on the table.

_Better get on with it before Crowley gets here._

_He’ll just try to stop you. _

_..._

_Not if you finish the job first. _

_But Crowley is your -_

_HE DOES NOT LOVE YOU. HE NEVER DID._

_...And no one ever has._

_But remember when he -_

_All the time the two of you have been friends has probably just been the most lengthy game of chess known to the universe, with Crowley as the queen, a shark slowly circling, trying to temp you, the helpless pawn._

_...but he said he’s on his way —_

_..._

_You never told him — _

Something inside Aziraphale cracked at this, He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the thought away — 

_No no no no no. Please, no -_

_He doesn’t need to know that. He never needs to know. Because he is incapable of love. Demons are incapable of love. He might say he loves you but that does not mean it is true._

_You are all alone._

_You are disgusting._

_'All of them know what a fucking failure looks like.'_

_And all the same THINGS will still be here tomorrow. You will never be safe from them. The bullying will never stop — _

_YOU’RE DISGUSTING._

_YOU’RE A FUCKING FAILURE._

_But he said he’s on his — _

_FINISH THE JOB._

_STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING FAILURE._

_STOP BEING SO FUCKING WEAK._

_...even if he does get here in time, that’s still not going to fix any of the things, any of the reasons you’re doing this. The same endless hell will all be waiting for me tomorrow, with or without Crowley. _

_..._

_If he stops me, I’ll just try again later. _Aziraphale concluded.

_..._

_And if there is a next time, I will not say goodbye._

Aziraphale’s phone rang. He briefly looked up from the glinting, blinding blades on the table to glance at it. Without answering, he already knew who it was.

_It’s Crowley. Answer it. Tell him that you're still alive._

_Stay on the phone until he gets here. Tell him that you'll wait for him - _

He suddenly couldn't get it done fast enough. With a cry of anguish, he picked up a razor blade in his right hand, pushed his sleeve up a little further on his arm, and briefly contemplated where to cut, how much pressure to cut with. 

_DO IT RIGHT._

_FUCKING FAILURE — _

He would bleed, though.

_'Everything he attempts, he fails at.'_

Then he drove the corner of the razor into his skin –

_Oh dear, that hurts. I didn’t think it would feel like that –_

_Are you positive you want to do this? Positive you want to...to die?_

Aziraphale steeled himself, shakily, to do what he was about to do. His own heartbeat roared in his ears. He hesitated for what felt like the briefest of seconds, and then his hatred for himself welled up and spilled over and burned him, and he knew there was no other way out than to do this, and he pressed the razor harder into his flesh. A small drop of blood oozed out. It suddenly dawned on him that the burn of the razor was almost nothing in comparison to the hell he felt inside. He trembled violently.

_You are disgusting._

_You are a fucking failure –_

And he drew the blade across his skin, pressing deeper, harder. He gasped with the pain of it. A thin line of red seeped up, hungry to fill this new channel. He watched his wrist with both detached curiosity and a sickening sense of relief as the blood pooled on top his skin, then drained down his arm in thin, snake-like lines, eventually dripping onto the floor beneath him. He felt a bit dizzy, heady with the power that suddenly surged through him. He had the power to _end this._

_Crowley, 1941, the books._

_..._

_He’s not your friend. No one is. Deep down, he just thinks you’re a worthless fuck-up too._

‘_This is hilarious - angels aren't supposed to be crybabies - you are disgusting - useless excuse for an angel - shut your stupid mouth and fucking die already.’_

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. He suddenly realized the phone was still ringing; it had never stopped.

And he put the razor to his skin again.

And pressed harder. 

–

Crowley was crying hard as he drove. His vision tunneled, and as thoughts of finding Aziraphale lying in a pool of his own blood, glassy-eyed, cold, lifeless sprung up in his mind, he realized he was screaming; but still, it wasn't enough. _Nothing _was enough; he was hurting worse inside than he'd ever hurt before, and the pain was _overwhelming_ \- he was overcome by a deep, desperate desire to cause himself pain, but there wasn’t time for that now. 

_Maybe if I pretend hard enough that I’m going to get to him before it’s too late,_

_Maybe he won’t —_

_Maybe he won’t — _

His mind flung questions at him, sharp as thrown playing cards embedding themselves into whatever soft targets they hit, in a vague effort to pull him away from the seeping, self-destructive void opening in front of Crowley. He felt like he was driving towards this void, faster and faster and faster with every second that squeezed past — 

Crowley felt like he was driving to Aziraphale’s funeral.

_But he’s not dead yet._

_...Is he?_

Driving to his own funeral.

Driving towards his own suicide.

And he could vividly see himself drinking himself to death, driving the Bentley off of a bridge, and the way the water would slowly fill up his lungs and make the pain fade into black nothingness, driving a dagger into his own heart — 

Who was he without Aziraphale, the angel who should have fallen but didn’t? 

That idea had always given him the strangest, deepest hope. Knowing there was one who got away. One who liked him even though he was a demon. Liked him not despite the fact he was different than the other demons, but because of it. 

What did he have without his best friend? 

You couldn't have your own side with just one person, could you?

Without Aziraphale, all Crowley would have left would be Hell.

_"I'm thinking about hurting myself...Suicide, Crowley."_

_"I'm going to slit my wrists."_

_"I will be dead by then."_

Guilt spread across his flesh like a ravenous, poisonous weed, attacking him unrelentingly from all angles. No matter how hard he tried to put his hands up to fend off the attack, he could not stop it - 

_It’s all my fault. _

_I should have called him more often. _

_I should have come over instead of just calling. _

_I should have made him tell me if he was okay. _

_I should have told him I was there for him._

_I never —_

There was one subtext that had concealed itself inside each anguished regret. It whispered to him in tones of stark red, stalking up like a predatory animal, growing like the roar of a hurricane, until it had no choice but to burst through the demon’s veil of invulnerability and be _confessed_ — 

The Bentley found it in itself to go the tiniest bit faster. Tears blurred Crowley’s vision, but somehow the Bentley kept him in his lane and safe, out of the way of other cars. 

_I never told him I loved him. _

—

Aziraphale stared down at his wrists, listening to the _drip-drip-drip_ of blood onto the rug. With each droplet, he felt lighter; the burden was being lifted from his shoulders. 

_All of this will be over soon. _

_This isn’t even about Gabriel anymore, _Aziraphale thought. _He was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. I have hated myself for a long time now. _

_I should have done this a long time ago. _

The world around him seemed to be getting quieter. He fought off thoughts of Crowley, and thoughts of what would happen if he failed, and memories of all the things in the world that he had cherished. Everything he was leaving behind. 

_And thoughts of Crowley getting here too late to save you. _

_Crowley, wailing, holding your body in his arms, sobbing, the blood, your flesh cold, lifeless, never had a chance - _

_He loves you. _

_No, anything but - _

And he chose to intently focus on the blood, and the shaky breaths that would hopefully be among his last, and the feeling of peace, or silence, or nothingness or _something _that was starting to nip up around the edges of his vision. And he fully let the feeling of his deep need to die overtake him. 

He sensed the beginning of a warm embrace, a sort of love he hoped was Death. Oh, the idea that soon there would be no more of this pain made him almost weep with relief. _He was so close - _

_...a mercy killing..._

_...shut your stupid mouth and fucking die already..._

_...soon this will all be over..._

_...no more - _

In an instant, his meditation was broken. He heard the door downstairs being kicked from its hinges, and then the sound of someone thundering up the stairs, and Crowley ramming the door to Aziraphale's flat with his shoulder -

(_HURRY UP AND DIE ALREADY; YOU HAVE FAILED, HE IS GOING TO STOP YOU_)

_Please please please let me die... _The angel prayed frantically. His heart pounded madly, and whether it was from relief or disappointment...

YOU HAVE FAILED —

And the door slammed open and hit the wall behind it so hard that a painting fell off and –

“_You're alive.” _Crowley sobbed. He looked equal parts horrified and relieved –

But then he saw what Aziraphale had done to himself, and the contrast of Aziraphale's soft, pink hands covered in his own blood and clutching the razor overwhelmed Crowley. Fat tears rolled down Crowley's face. He cried openly.

“Angel...Aziraphale, _please _put down the razor.” Crowley begged, and he fell to his knees beside Aziraphale. The demon gestured confusedly with his hands, not sure what to do with them, how to stop what was happening, how to _help, how to stop the nightmare –_

Aziraphale looked away, looked back at the blade he was pressing into his wrist. And he drew it the tiniest bit further, numb, defiant, wishing desperately there was something he could do to end it faster, before something stopped him. There was still time. Crowley hadn't stopped him yet.

_Perhaps, a gun..._

A harsh, warm, anguished sob tore from Crowley’s chest. Crowley threw his head back, sobbing like a child, and he wrapped his long, warm (_safe, safe, safe_) arms around the angel’s waist, his body wracking with devastating, guttural sobs as he clung to him.

_Aziraphale. _Suddenly reality, and the harsh permanence of what he was doing, and the terror he should have felt before, all kicked in, and Aziraphale trembled madly and looked at the blade his other hand was holding to his skin, and the deep red lines, and the blood, _oh, there was so much blood, _and his very best friend clutching desperately onto the only thing that he truly loved.

And suddenly, the blade was too heavy to hold.

Aziraphale threw it down onto the table, disgusted, horrified, by what he had done –

Crowley realized Aziraphale had put down the blade, and that made him cry harder.

“I’m sorry.” The angel choked out, tears flooding his eyes as he made a futile attempt with his good hand to stop the bleeding on the opposite wrist. “_I’m so sorry, Crowley._”

“I know, Aziraphale. _I know._” Crowley sobbed into Aziraphale's side.

Crowley clutched at him desperately, arms wrapped around the angel, holding him tightly. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s hair, sobs wracking his body.

_Aziraphale is alive._

_He's alive._

_He's alive._

_You got here in time._

Crowley peeled his face away from Aziraphale and looked down at the angel's bleeding wrists; the deep gashes and his bloodstained trousers and the blood on the floor –

“Oh – _fuck_.” Sobbed Crowley, looking at all the _blood._

Aziraphale just cried harder.

“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Crowley jumped up, touching Aziraphale on the shoulder briefly in a way he hoped conveyed _stay here, I'll be back in a second, you're going to be okay, please be okay – please be okay _and rushed off into the bathroom. Then he was back moments later, holding a roll of bandages and a box of first aid supplies.

“_Aziraphale_.” Crowley murmured softly.

The angel, trembling madly, slowly held out his wrist and pulled away his other hand, uncovering the damage he had done to himself. 

Crowley took his hand, gingerly wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale's hand, supporting the angels' arm. And the absolute tenderness, the _LOVE_, by which his fingers were wrapped in Aziraphale's was too much for the angel to take, and he was reminded of all the reasons he’d needed to kill himself in the first place. 

Repulsion suddenly washed over him in a great, sickening wave as he looked at the deep red lines in his flesh, lines he himself had put there.

_You failed at this too._

_You couldn't even kill yourself properly._

_You really are a fucking failure._

_An useless excuse for an angel._

_Disgusting._

“I'm sorry, this'll sting a bit.” Crowley murmured.

Crowley got right to work, wiping away the blood with antiseptic towelettes, frantically, but somehow also with the utmost gentility –

“Are you mad at me?” Sobbed Aziraphale. 

Crowley stopped and looked Aziraphale in the eyes. His featured softened, and he looked like he was going to cry again. 

“Of course I’m not.” He said softly. 

Aziraphale nodded, guilt welling up inside him and spilling over. The idea that Crowley wasn’t cross with him, that Crowley was left to take care of him, that Crowley was actively _CHOOSING_ to take care of him, to bandage him up properly rather than just snapping his fingers and miracling the wounds dressed, that here Aziraphale had tried to kill himself and yet he was met with total acceptance, that Crowley was just relieved he was okay, that Crowley was _crying_, overwhelmed Aziraphale. 

With a tenderness so palpable that Aziraphale had never knew one could feel it so tangibly, Crowley began to bandage his arm, wrapping the white bandages round and round, up his arm, slowly concealing the wounds from sight. 

A sickening feeling began to take root in Aziraphale, seeing the...

_YOU’RE A FUCKING FAILURE. _

_GABRIEL WOULD LAUGH IF HE KNEW YOU NOT ONLY TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF BUT FAILED AT THAT TOO. _

...seeing the wounds being covered, as though Crowley was trying to erase what had happened. And worst of all, Aziraphale knew that by tomorrow, his body would have healed itself, and there wouldn’t even be scars left to prove he’d even tried — 

His arm was now bandaged. Crowley let out a sharp exhale of breath. Aziraphale noticed how violently the demon was trembling.

“Thank _somebody, _these aren't too _deep_.” Crowley didn't want to think what might have happened if they had been.

_Oh, deeper – _Thought Aziraphale, and suddenly, the emptiness cascaded over him in fresh new devastating waves. His eyes filled with another flood of tears.

_You should have cut deeper –_

And the images filled his mind again. Him lying there dead in a pool of his own blood, what would have happened if he’d _just cut deeper_ instead of being a fucking coward. The sweet relief that had been snatched away from him, just when relief had been _so close, but he hadn’t cut deeper, and Crowley had shown up when there was still time to save him. _

_He didn’t deserved to be saved. _

_He obviously doesn’t know what a fuck-up I am. _

_The same problems will all still be there tomorrow, won’t they?_ He reminded himself. _And you still won’t be any closer to being able to handle them than you are now –_

‘_If he stops me I’ll just -‘_

“What's wrong?” Crowley asked softly, his tear-reddened eyes meeting Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale broke down in sobs again, covering his eyes with his hands.

“Aziraphale – what is it? Angel? Was it something I said?”

Aziraphale whispered,

“I wish I'd cut deeper.”

Crowley pulled the angel tight against him and buried his face in his shoulder. His face was warm and damp against Aziraphale's neck. Aziraphale knew Crowley was crying again, and he felt so terribly guilty about that.

_You never should have called him, _thought Aziraphale.

_But then you would only have broken his heart more. If he hadn’t been able to save you. See what a state he’s in now?_

_And did you really want to die, or did you just want the pain to stop? And you thought that this was the only way out?_

_He’s so vulnerable. And even a demon couldn’t fake a vulnerability as naked as this_. 

...

And a thought from the back of Aziraphale’s mind whispered:

_He loves you, doesn’t he?_

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Crowley just held him, and he held Crowley right back with his good arm. When both their tears had quieted, Crowley took him by the hands with a tenderness that Aziraphale knew only someone who'd once been an angel was capable of, and the demon led him to the couch. He sat Aziraphale down and miracled a blanket, which he then wrapped Aziraphale in.

Crowley sat next to him, and he looked at his angel, up and down, and touched his shoulder as if to verify that he was really alive, and then Crowley promptly broke down again. His whole body filled with the same panic he'd felt when he'd walked into the burning bookshop — 

"What is it?" Aziraphale murmured, worried. 

_I THOUGHT I'D LOST YOU AGAIN, _Crowley wanted to scream. His emotions fought inside him like wild animals, and it took everything he had to be strong. But he had to be strong, for Aziraphale. Aziraphale needed him more than ever. _You can break down again later. But not now. Not when he needs you so desperately. _If he expressed too much of the pain he was feeling, it would only hurt Aziraphale. So he bottled up the anguish and the terror of thinking Aziraphale was dead and how much it killed him inside that he'd almost lost Aziraphale a second time. _I will never tell him. _

He settled on crying instead. 

“I’m so sorry Crowley.” Aziraphale said, reaching out to pull Crowley closer to him, but Crowley stopped him and instead wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, his chin resting on top the angel’s head, crouching on his lap until their chests were flush against each other, enveloping the big soft broken angel with his slim body. Both of them had the feeling that perhaps he could wrap around him whole and somehow protect Aziraphale, somehow.

_Somehow._

“I thought I was going to find you -" Crowley whispered. 

Aziraphale just nodded, looking away. Crowley looked away too, then he pressed his cheek against Aziraphale's.

“What if I want to do that again?” Aziraphale whispered. He already did. And the idea that he might want to, that next time he _might not be able to stop himself_, terrified him. 

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

"Are you going to try again?" His voice came out as a whimper.

"I don't know." Aziraphale sounded numb. "I don't know." He repeated, his voice cracking.

“I know it’s not much consolation, but please don’t.” Crowley pleaded quietly. 

“All this pain is just...unbearable.” Aziraphale murmured, then his voice got louder. “And I couldn’t even succeed at killing myself. I really am a fucking failure.”

“What makes you say that?” Crowley looked shocked, almost offended. 

“I _hate_ myself.”

Crowley’s grip on him tightened, and the demon whimpered. 

"How can - Aziraphale...I mean, if you want to talk about it — why..." 

Aziraphale's shoulders tensed. 

"I used to love myself, but that was a while ago. Now, I look in the mirror and - it’s almost as if I couldn’t hate anyone more. You saving my life still doesn't change the horrible things I've been going through. At work, Gabriel...and the other angels, they - I'm always going off one place or another to cry...and the bullying -"

Anger coursed through Crowley at whoever had made Aziraphale feel this way, but that was something to be dealt with _later_. 

"Things have been...really _bad_...for a long time." Aziraphale explained tiredly. "I've been struggling with...depression, for quite some time now. And something happened earlier that just made it all too much to take and...Crowley, _I really and truly hate myself_." He spat out the words. 

"Oh, fuck." Crowley said. "I should have come over sooner. I should have known something was wrong. Why didn't you call me when things started to get bad? I could have made things better...”

Aziraphale covered his eyes with his hands and looked away. He sounded as though he'd started to cry again.

"I didn't think you'd care. I didn't think you could help me. I thought you found me annoying and..." Crowley gasped audibly at that. "...I thought you didn't really like me, you just liked me because I was there. And then I didn't want to call you, I didn't want to let you know what I was going to do but - but I _had _to..."

"Aziraphale, I -“ Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, and his eyes met Aziraphale’s, and his heart pounded in his ears, but it was _time_. Too much time had been wasted with this as a secret. He'd come up with too many excuses. He'd thought he'd have nothing but time to say this, but not even an hour ago he'd almost - never had the chance to. And suddenly, there was only one thing he _could_ say. He should have said it years ago - 

“I love you, Azirpahale. I _love_ you.”

And he pulled the angel close, even closer, in a way that like the vine cracking its way into Aziraphale’s mind and convincing him that his life was not worth continuing, this vine snaked in too through the cracks in the wall, but it was warm and felt of nothing but the purest love, and it forced its way in not to hurt, but to heal. And a small, different idea planted itself in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, growing up through the dead leaves, nurturing itself with the feeble beginnings of sunlight that were finally just beginning to break through the clouds and rise up over the hillside. 

_Crowley loves you. _

And the sad part inside Aziraphale screamed out _of course he does not, he cannot, the bullies will all still be there tomorrow, you can't face it, there's no coming back from what you did. _

But the part of his mind that still loved him, the part he had thought had _died had not died -_ it was still alive, it still existed, and it suddenly found itself growing stronger again, and it warmly shouted like a lantern rising up from a sea of dimness:

_1941, the books. _

_He didn’t have to clean and bandage your wounds the way a human would. He could have snapped his fingers and the dirty work would be done. _

_And he didn’t have to touch your arm with such tenderness. He could have been cross with you. And he miracled you a blanket and wrapped you in it. _

_He didn’t have to show up at all. Can you imagine Hastur or Ligur showing up if someone they knew - much less, an angel? - called to say goodbye? _

_And he is holding you. He is holding you now, and he is so broken and so deeply vulnerable. If he didn’t have a heart, you wouldn’t have been able to break it. _

_And you can feel love. You can deny it all you want, but you KNOW THAT CROWLEY LOVES YOU. _

Aziraphale held him harder than ever before, sobbing, this time with relief and a deep joy that he suddenly found radiating from his small, sad, broken heart. Something inside him flooded out; some great vibrant thing he’d been trying to kill for millennia finally found a home it could settle down into, safe in the knowledge that there did not have to be monsters waiting outside his door. And the pain which had driven him to bleed, the pain which had become a container for all his self-loathing, it contrasted and mixed in the water of tears with the freshest warmth, a sense of coming home, a sense that the outcast had finally found a place where they were _wanted_ \- 

“I love you too, Crowley. _I love you_.”

And Crowley sobbed back, partially because all this time he had been terrified that he was not loved in return, and partially because he had nearly missed out on ever getting to tell him this. 

They held each other, basking in the warmth, glowing in the knowledge that they were not entirely alone in this universe, feeling each other’s heartbeats and the blooming, life-affirming knowledge that _they were alive._

And the desire to bleed nipped up inside Aziraphale again, but it was weaker, and for the first time in weeks, Aziraphale felt as though he was powerful enough to smite them back into the darkness, where they belonged, where they could not make him want to do things to himself that would destroy him.

Uncertainty reared it’s ugly head, just the smallest bit. 

_You feel better now, but what about tomorrow? What about the next time? This might just be a temporary respite; depression still has its long, sharp claws embedded in your back, waiting for the next right moment to pounce. You think knowing Crowley loves you is suddenly going to fix everything? _

_Deep inside, you still hate yourself. Deep inside you know you don't deserve to be alive - _

“I still don’t know what to do.” Aziraphale murmured, suddenly feeling very lost. He pulled Crowley closer, as if by doing so, he could stop the empty feeling that was beginning to slide back towards him. 

“We’ll just take this one day at a time.” Crowley said gently. “You and me - I’ll be right there beside you the whole time_. _Tell me what you need, tell me how I can help_. We’ll get you help._ And I’ll show you what’s - what’s worth staying here for. I’ll remind you.”

Aziraphale sighed. 

“But sometimes - sometimes it feels like all those things aren’t real anymore.”

“...I know that.” Crowley said slowly. “But they are real. They just don’t seem real, thanks to the depression. It makes you see things wrong. It makes you think everything is bad and always will be. But if you take it slow, you’ll start feeling better.“ 

“How can you say that with such confidence?” Aziraphale asked, feeling frightened and uncertain. He looked down at his bandaged arm, and _oh,_ how it terrified him to think he might feel like trying again. And even worse, he wasn’t sure whether the knowledge that Crowley loved him would be enough to stop him next time. He had seen the damage he had caused; he was afraid of what he was capable of doing. 

_Oh, if you only knew,_ thought Crowley. 

Crowley rubbed his face with his hands and hesitated. He had never shown such vulnerability before, never told ANYONE this before. 

_Demons weren’t supposed to wish they were dead any more than angels were. And demons most definitely were not supposed to be vulnerable._

Crowley was torn between the desire to protect Aziraphale from the truth, and the knowledge that telling him _would_ hurt him, but ultimately help him. Oh, how it broke his heart to see the tendrils of sadness wrapping themselves around Aziraphale’s neck trying to strangle out his light -

If Crowley was not vulnerable, if Crowley did not tell him the truth, he _knew_ that Aziraphale would never believe there was hope that he could feel better. He needed to do whatever it took. Whatever it took, to make Aziraphale feel less alone. 

Without such vulnerability, how was he supposed to give the angel hope? 

Crowley let out a deep breath, looked Aziraphale in those very red, tear-stained eyes, and looked away. 

“I’ve wanted to...do the same thing you were trying to do, more times than I’ve cared to admit...so I know what it’s like.” It felt both terrible and relieving to say this, to finally be that honest and vulnerable, to admit that _often times, he had not been okay._

“Oh, Crowley!” Gasped Aziraphale, the memory of what he’d been going through hitting him squarely in the chest as he tried to wrap his mind around the idea that _Crowley had felt the same way before_. It tore his heart out to picture Crowley feeling the same things and thinking the same things. But Crowley had felt those things and Crowley had thought those things, yet _he was still here._ He held Crowley even harder, feeling his heart breaking. “Wh - why?”

Crowley pulled back and looked Aziraphale directly in the eyes. His lip trembled.

“Because I hated myself.” He said. “Couldn’t stand being who I was sometimes, not for another moment. Sure, there were things I could do to distract myself, but that - that emptiness, it was always there.”

“Did Hell...bully you?” The angel asked softly. 

Crowley shook his head. 

“No. Not like - not anything like what you went through...” Oh, how Crowley _yearned with a vengeance_ to find out what Heaven had done to Aziraphale, but the angel still looked so sad he knew it would be the worst possible thing to ask. _That will come later._ He had a feeling though that it would be helpful if he continued talking about his own experiences. “But they never made me feel wanted, either. I was always an outsider. I didn’t understand how someone of my type could be so much different than me. But none of them were the least bit like me. I knew I could never be myself, not around them, and not if I thought they were watching, and that almost killed me. Always having to pretend to be someone I'm not. And neither Heaven nor Hell understands the sense of isolation we can be capable of...being sent from place to place but never belonging anywhere, everyone you know being either mortals who eventually die or divine beings you never liked in the first place...makes you not even want to get out of bed in the morning. Makes it so you're always looking for a way out, as you’re walking around; makes you think the most terrible things about what would happen if you did them -“ Crowley spat out the words. "Makes you think you want to. Makes you think it's the only thing left to do..." 

“Did you ever...try?” Azirpahale whispered, his big round eyes searching Crowley’s. 

“...I almost did, once.” He admitted quietly, looking away.

“With the holy water?”

Crowley hesitated. 

“Not with the holy water. I wouldn’t have done that to you. But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t at least part of the reason why I wanted it, or that there weren’t countless times I thought, ‘Things are really getting bad. If they get any worse, there’s always the holy water.’ No. Usually it was things like pills or trains or bridges.”

“What was it the time you - almost did?” 

“I promise I will tell you someday, but I'd rather not talk about that right now.” 

Aziraphale nodded. The two were silent for a few minutes, until Crowley felt Aziraphale tense up.

"What is it?" He asked.

“Crowley, I’m afraid. I feel so lost. Now that I’ve done what I’ve done, what do I do...next?”

_There’s no coming back from what you did. _

_..._

_...Yes, there is. _

“Are you tired?” Asked Crowley. 

“Very.” Said Aziraphale. 

“Then I’d recommend having a good sleep.” Crowley said. “It’s amazing how much better things can look in the morning.”

“I have a bed, but I don’t know how to sleep...mostly, it’s just covered in books.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and with a quick shuffling sound, the books went back to their respective places. 

“I can teach you how to sleep.” Crowley said. “It’s easy.”

“Okay.” Said Aziraphale. 

The two went into Aziraphale’s bed, to which he found was now a lush four-poster with red velvet draperies and mountains of plush white blankets. Aziraphale climbed in, and so did Crowley, and Crowley pulled the blankets up over both of them and tucked them in around Aziraphale so he would stay warm. Crowley explained that to sleep, you just concentrated on the idea of sleep until you began seeing these fluffy things that looked like sheep - “...hence why people count sheep to go to sleep.” said Crowley - and he noticed how terrified and small and sad Aziraphale still looked. His bottom lip quivered, and Crowley was quick to hug him close. 

"I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to stay here with you, as long as it takes for you to feel better. I'm going to be here." He said, smoothing down Azirpahale’s hair and feeling the angel start to calm down.

"I don't trust myself to not try it again." Aziraphale's voice came out small. 

"I'll stay awake. I'll keep you safe. I won't let you hurt yourself. If you feel like doing it again and you’re afraid you might, please tell me and we can go somewhere, we can do something, I’ll distract you. I’ll comfort you. But I’ll keep you safe from yourself. I’ll keep you safe." Crowley said, even softer. And he wrapped his arms tighter around the angel. "I'm here. I'm _here."_

And Aziraphale hugged him back even tighter. All the tension went out of Aziraphale's body.

"Thank you Crowley. Thank you."

Crowley kissed the top of his head.

"I love you." He murmured.

“I love you too, Crowley.”

The two lied there, Aziraphale shifting around trying to get comfortable, and Crowley doing everything he could to make sure his angel felt soothed and comforted and cared for. 

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do if - Gabriel...summons me while I’m sleeping?” Aziraphale started to tear up again. 

Crowley’s heart both broke and burned at this. 

“With a little miracle, I bet Shadwell could suddenly become an expert at summoning archangels...especially one in particular.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s face lit up for a second, and he laughed, and _oh how fucking good that felt, for both of them_.

“And If Gabriel gets pissed that I’m stopping him from contacting you, he might tell Beezlebub. And you know they feel about Gabriel...” Crowley teased. Anything to make his angel smile. 

“I love you, Crowley.” Azirpahale said reverently, smiling despite his tears. 

“I love you too, Angel.”

And Crowley felt the deepest of deep joys as Aziraphale's breathing became slow and even, and the angel fell into a peaceful sleep for the first time ever.

“_You are safe here.” _Crowley whispered into the darkness, and he kissed the top of Azirpahale’s head. 

—

Aziraphale slept solidly for three days. Crowley did not once leave his side while he slept. Gabriel did not bother Aziraphale, and the shop remained closed, which did not surprise any of the passerby. A few small miracles may or may not have been involved.

When Aziraphale awoke, it was morning and the sun was out. Crowley was still lying there next to him, reading a book, of all things. 

“Aziraphale!” He said warmly. 

“What are you reading?” Asked the sleepy angel, noticing a whole pile of books on the bedside table. 

“This book is about how to recover from depression. So are most of those, as well as a few about helping friends in need. And I’ve found some people who can help you feel better, and we can do the things these books say -“

Aziraphale surged forward and wrapped Crowley in his arms. 

"Are you - feeling better -" Crowley said, suddenly feeling teary-eyed. 

"Yes, a little bit - but it's enough."

"You don't want to..."

"No, not right now."

Crowley whimpered in his arms and buried his face in Aziraphale's hair, breathing in deep the smell of what he loved more than anything in the universe. 

"Thank you, Crowley, for..._being there_." Aziraphale said, his voice wavering as he tried to sound much stronger and more okay than he was feeling. And Crowley knew he really meant, _thank you for coming and saving me even when I didn't think I deserved to be saved. _

"I should have known something was wrong, I should have come sooner, I shouldn't have turned away when you clearly needed someone to be there for you. But I didn't think that - I didn't think angels - I didn't think you -" He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, trembling.

"You couldn't have known that, Crowley. I know you'll be inclined to, but please don't blame yourself. Just because angels sometimes wish they were dead doesn't mean there isn't hope for them." Aziraphale said. "There's always hope for the hopeless, which I guess means there's really no such thing as being a 'lost cause'." And he looked into Crowley's eyes searchingly, as if Crowley understanding this was the final confirmation Aziraphale needed that demons were capable of love and seeing the good in people.

He found what he needed to see.

"Of course there’s always hope." Said Crowley. "Things are going to get better. Just let me know what you need, what I can do to help you. You're going to make it through this, and soon you're not just going to be okay. You're going to be more than okay. And I will be here for you, always."

Aziraphale nodded. The sad, lost, empty feelings were still there, and Aziraphale knew this was just the beginning of his recovery, and that recovering wouldn't be easy, but he suddenly was filled with the glowing warm idea, as warm as a mug of hot cocoa or the sunlight on an exquisite afternoon, that _there was hope for him_, that things could get better, and that recovery was worth it.

His story was not going to end here. 

"Thank you for - for never stopping believing in me." Aziraphale whispered, and the two of them cried quietly, wrapped in each others' arms until their tears subsided.

Crowley hugged Aziraphale, then pulled back to look him in the eyes.

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”

“I’d love that.” Said Aziraphale. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I plan on writing one or two follow ups to this story once I'm done working on a Good Omens AU project I'm currently writing! One of the follow-ups is going to be about how Aziraphale's suicide attempt affected Crowley's mental health, so keep your eyes open for both those things!


End file.
